


Every Demon Wants his Pound of Flesh

by Mothfluff



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Ineffable husbands - Fandom
Genre: Aziraphale is one scary bastard if he wants to be, Blood, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gen, Hastur wants his revenge, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, I'm not sure but better safe than sorry!, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sick Crowley (Good Omens), Wing injuries, Wings, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), tw abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-06 13:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20508011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothfluff/pseuds/Mothfluff
Summary: The traitor Crowley deserved punishment. He had cost Hell its chance to fight and finally win. He had been lying to them, working against them behind their backs, and for that, he needed to be punished. More importantly, to Hastur at least, he'd destroyed Ligur. The fact that the Anti-Christ had brought him back when changing the world back to its former state did not change Hastur's immense hatred towards Crowley for this most heinous actThe holy water hadn't worked, and fear had kept Beelzebub and the others from trying even harsher ways. Fear of what he might do to them, with his unknown powers, were they to fail at another punishment in Hell.But that didn't mean Hastur couldn’t find ways to punish him while keeping him on earth.Every once in a while - no set times, no regularity, or otherwise he and his blessed angel could predict it and stop them – he catches up with him.





	1. Of Curses, Pain and Righteous Anger

The traitor Crowley deserved punishment. He had cost Hell its chance to fight and finally win. He had been lying to them, working against them behind their backs, and for that, he needed to be punished. More importantly, to Hastur at least, he'd destroyed Ligur. The fact that the Anti-Christ had brought him back when changing the world back to its former state did not change Hastur's immense hatred towards Crowley for this most heinous act.

The holy water hadn't worked, and fear had kept Beelzebub and the others from trying even harsher ways. Fear of what he might do to them, with his unknown powers, were they to fail at another punishment in Hell.

But that didn't mean Hastur couldn’t find ways to punish him while keeping him on earth.

Every once in a while - no set times, no regularity, or otherwise he and his blessed angel could predict it and stop them – he catches up with him.

  
  


-*-

  
  


Sometimes it’s just a regular beating. Crowley is fast and clever and slithery, but he can’t hold up in a fight once Hastur and his replacable demons do catch him, they know it, and he knows it. He's on the ground in mere minutes, even though there’s still enough energy left in him to fight back, smart enough to know that if he pretends to go down quick they stop even quicker, because they’re stupid like that.

They tease him as blood trickles down his nose to his upper lip, about running back to his southern pansy, and he smiles and grins and bears it, listening to Hastur scowl, “he might at least be able to hold us back, not like you wuss”, getting another kick to his stomach after he spits at his feet. As if he’d ever run to the bookshop with demons on his heels. As if he’d ever bring them to Aziraphale and risk even the slightest chance of him getting hurt.

  
  


As such, Aziraphale does not know about these beatings. He does not get to tend to Crowley’s wounds. Crowley wants him to, so badly, wants his warm and soft hands smoothing over bruises, but he knows what would happen if the angel found out, or rather, he worries what might happen. He’s seen Aziraphale’s righteous anger only a few times in six millenia, and it has reminded him every time why the Bible sees the need for angels to introduce themselves with “Fear Not”. He's seen him cut down foes and destroy enemies. But he's also seen him hurt, when he wasn't fast enough, or careful enough, and if he were to fight a demon for Crowley's sake and end up hurt or-

It doesn't bear thinking about. Crowley will not let it happen. So Crowley can not let him know.

So he hides in his flat, which by now is only kept for appearances rather than for living in, pretending to nap, pretending to be busy, healing himself as quickly as he can so Aziraphale does not need to worry nor wonder about the demon missing for too long again.

  
  


-*-

  
  


But sometimes it’s not just beatings. Sometimes Hastur gets creative, even though it is not a trait often associated with demons.

He bound the traitor one time, a personally invented infernal spell wrapped around a silver band, and even with his unusual powers Crowley knew it was too strong to be broken by a simple demon as he felt his body transform. The snake of Eden slithered away into the darkness as he heard the Duke of Hell laugh. Five weeks he had to spend in this form, unable to turn back, fearing far more than usual that he’d forget how to do it. Five weeks until Aziraphale stopped leaving messages and started knocking on the door, until he finally miracled it open and found him coiled up between his plants, which were shivering not with fear from his screams, but with worry for him. He’d barely moved ever since he’d found the warmest, darkest spot between them to hide.

  
  


It took only a snap of the angel's fingers to release the bracelet around his throat, which by now was sore and blistered, even as he turned back into his human form so fast it actually hurt his joints. Aziraphale was more powerful than he usually let on, but his hands now were careful and soothing as he wiped over the wound, healing it slowly.

“Oh my dear boy.” he whispered just as careful. “Who did this to you?”

“S'just.” Crowley croaked. He was not used to vocal chords right now. “S'just a stupid accident.”

“An accident.” It was an open question, one he had hoped not to answer, but Aziraphale's pleading eyes could not be avoided for too long.

“Just a... kerfuffle. A little run-in with some stupid demons. Must've been out on some job.” Crowley rubbed his fingers across the now healed wound, feeling the red-hot line still across his throat, as if an executioner had drawn a guideline for the guillotine. Hastur would probably enjoy that thought, too. “Y'can imagine I'm not too popular Downstairs. Guess they figured they could get a quick fight in.”

“That was not the spellwork of a lowly demon.”

“Yeah, I'm not too popular with the upper ranks either, who would've thought. Remember the one I turned into a pile of goo?”

He could feel Aziraphale's eyes on him, he could tell the angel wanted to ask more, to prod further. But he knew Crowley well enough to realise it would bring nothing but another fight, and he'd already missed him for five weeks. He would talk when when he wanted to talk, and until then, they had to make up for several missed dinners.

Crowley never talks. There are moments where Aziraphale thinks he might, hopes, when the conversation sways a certain way, but he doesn't. He rubs across his throat from time to time, or along other bruises that he thinks Aziraphale hasn't seen.

He has seen them all. He's seen the cuts, the blue spots, the remnants of a black eye one time. He's laid soft kisses on far too many little scars that Crowley pretends not to have.

It hurt. Hurt to know that there is somebody out for his beloved, and he cannot help him because he won't let him. Hurt to know that Crowley won't tell, can't tell for some reason. Hurt that he couldn't comfort him without the risk of Crowley pulling away, putting up walls, pretending not to be hurt.

He resigns himself to making up for it in soft ways, gentle words, warm hands on bruised skin, lingering kisses on a still red line on his throat, not mentioning it, never mentioning it so Crowley won't have to think about something he clearly doesn't want to think about, while he can't think about anything else.

Someone keeps hurting Crowley, and at some point, they would pay. That Aziraphale knew for certain, because he would make them pay.

What he didn't know was just how far Crowley was willing to take it before he talks.

-*-

It was a curse another time, a new, experimental one, based on what Hastur had used for various plagues and diseases in centuries past. It had done wonderfully horrible things to the bodies of humans he'd tested it on, and he was sure it would do wonderfully horrible things to the traitor. He'd never thrown a curse for humans on one of their own, surprisingly. If it ended up discorporating the blessed idiot, well, they could just send him back up and he could start again.

It already proved to be worth it when Crowley, crumbled to the ground in front of him, threw up so violently his whole body was shaking, coughing, blood dripping from his lip. He could barely hear Hastur's laughter as the world began to spin around him.

There is no other memory in his mind except for pain until he wakes under a soft, slightly dusty tartan duvet.

Even with his head shrouded in pain, he can't help but scold himself. However he'd done it, he'd dragged himself back to Aziraphale's, or called for his help, or- any which way, he'd pulled the angel into this mess now. He curses himself under his breath, ironically, as the other demons' curse is still flowing through his veins, making him shiver from cold and sweat from heat at the same time.

Until he feels a damp, cold towel swiping across his forehead, and blearily opens one slitted golden eye to look into worried blue ones. He tries to swat away Aziraphale's hand with the towel. His limbs fail him.

“M'fine.” is all he can mumble, trying to pass it off as nothing again.

“You're awake!” Aziraphale tries not to put too much worry into his voice. He fails as well.

“My dear, oh, my darling.” The towel carefully wipes across Crowley's face again, a loving hand holding him steady as the rest of his body shakes. “don't worry, you'll get better. I'll take care of you.”

It sounds like a mantra because it almost is, because it has been repeated so much in the past two days it has become as important as his daily prayer. Aziraphale has been taking care of Crowley as such for two days now. Two days of him not waking up, only shaking in his sleep, crying out now and again, making the angel jump to his side every time only to see his eyes still screwed shut, face scowling with pain. Two days since he'd felt an immense rush of pain himself and had known, with no explanation, that he had to get to Crowley as quickly as possible. Two days since he'd found him in an alleyway, covered in dirt and sick and blood and not answering to his pleading call.

One day since he'd called Anathema and almost cried while asking for help, because he could tell this was infernal work created for humans, and nothing he did could break it from a demon. One day since the worst night of his life after Armageddon't, when he watched Crowley's body writhe and sliver across the floor in ways not even a snake would, trapped in the sigil covered circle Anathema had put down, watched his eyes rip open into pure black, not a shimmer of the usual gold, as he screamed and coughed only to drop back down again, unmoving and his eyes shut. Yet still breathing, thank the God Almighty, still breathing and living.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” the witch had said into the air, not sure whether she was addressing Crowley or Aziraphale with tears in her eyes. “The curse is broken now, but I don't know – I've never worked with a demon before – curses are not for demons, I mean-”

Neither of them had answered her, of course, and so she'd kept quiet while helping Aziraphale bring Crowley back to the bed, and left just as quietly when she realised the angel was not going to move from his side to give her a proper goodbye all the way down to the bookstore's entry like he usually did.

Two days in which Aziraphale didn't know if Crowley would wake up. If what he did had helped at all.

But he was awake now, and he would get better. The mantra repeated.

“My dearest. You'll get better. I'll take care of you. Don't worry.”

And once he'd gotten better, he would talk. He had to.

Aziraphale was not going to let whoever did this walk away unpunished.

-*-

The curse passed through Crowley's body quickly, like the deadly disease it was meant to be for humans. It was dreadful business, but nothing compared to the two first days if he interpreted Aziraphale's quiet whispers properly, so he didn't even dare complain.

It wasn't until day four that the angel began to push ever so gently.

“My dear, I think it's time you took a nice, cleansing bath. You've been sweating for days. Are you up to getting out of bed?” Aziraphale tried to hide his constant worry behind his usual smiles now, and it almost worked. “I'll help you if you want.” _I'll help. Let me help. Tell me who did this. Tell me what happened._

Crowley only grumbled and pretended not to hear the hidden words that were almost screamed into his mind. Aziraphale still stood beside the bed until he'd gotten out of it, and slowly guided him to the bathroom, as if he didn't know exactly where it was that a claw-footed bathtub filled with steaming water and all sorts of soaps was waiting for him.

Before he could start undoing the buttons – too weak for a demonic miracle at the moment – Aziraphale's hands were already at his shirt. It was a clean one, he realised only now, a pyjama top actually, and definitely not his size. More suited for a slightly shorter, slightly rounder angel.

“M'not that badly-” he tried to protest, but Aziraphale shushed him as he pulled the half-unbuttoned shirt off. His movement stilled at the sight of an older, yet still blue-tinted bruise along Crowley's ribs.

The previously comfortable silence was suddenly deafening. Crowley was expecting a remark, a scolding even. He knew the angel was waiting for him to finally talk, had been waiting for weeks. _I can't tell you. I won't. I'm sorry._

Only Aziraphale's soft sigh broke the silence, and before Crowley could put together the strength to say anything out loud instead of just thinking it, he was already completely undressed and slowly but surely shifted towards the tub.

The water was almost scalding, leaving tiny pinpricks across his aching skin as he went in, exactly how he loved it, how only Aziraphale knew. He sank in deep up to his chin, leaving his mouth and nose out in the air so he could breathe – not that he needed to. He could sink down all the way, drown himself in the heat and forget the pain still racing in his bones for a few minutes. But if he did that, there wouldn't be hands in his hair now, carding through it, pouring water from a cup so carefully that not a single drop hit his face.

He knew what felt more pleasing.

Aziraphale massaged shampoo in his scalp, rinsed it, spread in one of the many careproducts Crowley liked to collect and he never truly understood, and massaged again. They'd played this round before, many times. It had never been filled with such a thick silence hanging over them, though. Crowley wanted to enjoy it, he really did, but his body was still aching and hurting in ways he didn't know were possible. Aziraphale wanted to enjoy it, he really did, but his mind kept drifting towards bad thoughts, bad feelings, bad things he'd do to whomever kept haunting his demon.

Neither of them was strong enough to break the silence, it seemed.

Crowley mustered all of his leftover strength, then, for the only thing that seemed important to say.

“Thank you.”

Aziraphale's hands swept down from his hair to his shoulders.

“There's no need.” His voice was finally soft, and he finally meant it without any worries. “You know I'll always be there for you.” _I'll always help. Let me help. Let me know._

“S'nice.” Crowley turned, water sloshing across his knees – red and scraped from the ground he'd fallen on – to lay his head into Aziraphale's hand, which gladly welcomed him and stroked his cheek. “Feels nice.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale smiled before clearing his throat. “I would feel better, though, if you would- if I knew-”

Silence again. Crowley kept his eyes closed, trying to focus on the warm hand, trying to ignore the baited breathing that seemed to get more anxious as the seconds ticked along on the large grandfather clock in the hallway.

“Crowley, please tell me what's going on. I beg you.”

Ouch. He scrunched up his nose, eyes still closed. Hard to lie to this tone of voice.

“Nothing's 'going on'. M'just sick.”

“You were cursed. So cursed Anathema had to bring over two spellbooks and several ingredients I didn't even recognise.”

“Have to get her another blessed thank you bouquet.”

“Do not dare to change the subject.”

Aziraphale's hand pushed Crowley's head up, turned it to face him. There was no chance to close his eyes and ignore the world now, let alone the angel with fire in his eyes right in front of him.

“Someone is hurting you, again and again, and I am sick and tired of watching you hide it. I am done with pretending I don't know. Please tell me.”

“You know it's demons.”

“Yes, but who exactly?”

Crowley shrugged. The water around his shoulders splashed across the tub, in front of Aziraphale's feet. “Just, demons. Told you I'm not popular.”

“You're telling me random demons just decide to come up to Earth to fight you and injure you? Bind you with powerful spells, and throw unknown curses at you? For what, for fun? Pure amusement?”

“Maybe.” Crowley turned around and sunk back into the water, wondering what would happen if he dived down, if Aziraphale would pull him up or run off in anger, wondering which would be better, realising both would be terrible. “I stopped the end of the fucking world and ended up fucking an angel, there's prob'ly not a single demon out there who doesn't hate my guts.”

“There's a difference between hating you and actively hunting you down.”

Another shrug. “Not much to do in Hell these days, I guess.”

“Crowley, please. Let me help you.” He finally said it.

“There's nothing you can do, angel.” _I won't let you. I won't risk you. They can do what they want with me, I can handle it. I can't handle them getting to you. _

Aziraphale wanted to reply. Wanted to complain. To shout, even, yell, though he knew that Crowley didn't deserve that, didn't need that right now. He was still hurting. He needed to heal.

He didn't need his anger, no matter how righteous it might be. He needed his care right now.

So Aziraphale decided to bury, yet again, what kept bubbling deep down in his chest, and rinse Crowley's hair once more.

Some day he would talk. Aziraphale would listen. And them someone would pay.


	2. Of Wings, Fears and Promises

Half a year since the sickness of the curse had passed, and nothing major had happened.

Crowley still came home with bruises sometimes. Aziraphale had given up asking, met with a stonewalled face each time. He'd resigned himself to heavy sighs and soft caresses, trying to make up for the pain with kindness.

Half a year, and it had not stilled nor softened Aziraphale's anger. He was waiting. He would be ready to strike.

Right now, though, he was reading. The book was not as good as the reviews had promised, the tea was almost empty, and he was mostly waiting for his demon to finally show up to their agreed rendezvous time with a better drink and more interesting topics than he had now.

The doorbell chimed, despite several CLOSED signs and a pretty heavy ward against earthly and non-earthly guests. Aziraphale perked up and got out of the armchair, up to the front of the shop, a smile on his face and a greeting on his lips-

both died out into quiet when he saw Crowley on the treshold.

Nothing seemed out of sorts on the first look, or to a more innocent onlooker. The usual black outfit, the usual suave look, hands in his pockets, leaning against the doorframe, eyes hidden behind dark glasses.

Aziraphale was not an innocent onlooker.

He could see the tenseness in the usual slithery-snakelike body. The trembling of arms. The heavy breathing, completely unnecessary for their bodies. There was a hint of an illusion wrapping around the entire demon, much like the wavering air rising from an intensely hot ground, distorting the sight around it. The entire presence of him seemed to shake.

“Crowley.” was all Aziraphale could stammer as he walked closer, as fast as he could.

Crowley stepped forward silently, still shaking, his eyes even behind the sunglasses empty and staring into nothing. His arms wrapped around Aziraphale's shoulders slowly, and the angel could tell how much effort each movement was for him. His body was trembling against his, cold and clammy, almost as badly as it had been during his way through the curse.

“Dear boy. What's happened?” Aziraphale's voice was barely above a whisper, right next to Crowley's ear, who'd buried his face deep into the angel's neck. The sunglasses had fallen to the floor, cracked, and neither of them cared.

Crowley didn't talk. Instead, he showed. Aziraphale could feel the illusion he'd crafted around himself drop, could feel the disturbing warmth of wet all across his back appear, could hear the soft drip on the floor, smelled the clangy scent of-

blood.

Before he could question why the demon's entire backside was covered in blood, positively soaked in it, a quiet swish revealed the answer.

Crowley's wings – majestic and black, shiny, shimmering under the sunlight in colours no one had ever seen before – pulled out of the ethereal plane in which both of them usually hid them from human eyes.

Aziraphale could not contain a pained gasp.

The usual black was mottled with dark red, already turning brown. The usual shine was hidden between rustled, uneven feathers.

But the worst part was that barely any of them were still there.

Even from this awkward angle, holding the demon still shaking in his arms, Aziraphale could tell that almost all of his flight feathers had been cut. A few secondaries remained, maybe a primary or two, it was hard to tell between the breaks and blood.

“Oh, my Lord.” Crowley was to weak to protest against the use of the Almighty's title, and maybe he wouldn't have even if he could have, maybe an angel begging God to help this mangled mess of pain and despair was the only thing that could help him now.

“They tried to clip you.” Aziraphale's voice was still a whisper, but Crowley shook as if he'd screamed into his face.

It was not a good job, either – whoever had done this must've worked with pure force, blunt scissors, sheer anger, or all of it together. His left wing was entirely broken, the skin open to reveal some bone, and Aziraphale figured that most of the bloodshed had come from there. Some of the feathers seemed more torn off than cut, as if they'd been ripped apart after one small incision. He could see the blood starting to drip from some of them and the broken bone – stopping the bleeding was the last demonic miracle Crowley'd been able to do before falling unconscious, and what a life-saving instinct that had been. Aziraphale could barely imagine how much blood he'd lost already, and how much more he would've lost were his wings left to bleed any more.

“Who.” It was not a question this time. It was a demand. The angel's voice was almost frozen. Crowley shook again, but whether it was a deliberate headshake or just from pain, he wasn't sure.

“Crowley.” His voice only barely softened. “Tell me.”

“Hastur.” It came out fast, pained, and he wanted to pull it back as soon as it was said.

“All of it?”

“Every time.”

Aziraphale wanted to cry. He could feel the tears welling up in the corners of his eyes, but he couldn't. Crowley's pain was seeping into him, strong and constant and otherworldly. This was not an injury to his corporation. This was deeper. It had finally reached the tipping point.

“My darling. My dear. Don't worry.” The old mantra returned. “You'll get better. I'll take care of-”

Before he finished speaking, a loud sob cut him off. Crowley was shaking even more against him, his body being wreaked by heavy sobs and whimpering, Aziraphale's shoulder dampening with tears.

He'd seen the demon shed a tear before, even cry quietly. Never like this. Nothing like this. Crowley was breaking apart in his arms, clutching onto Aziraphale's coatback as if he'd fall into nothingness were he to let go, and heaving, sobbing, crying without hearing anything from the outside world anymore.

Aziraphale held him tight, unmoving, a rock amidst the crashing sea of pain and hurt. A rock to build a church on, and Crowley knew, despite being unable to think at the moment, that he'd worship this angel for his love until the rest of their immortal lives together.

He barely noticed when his crying slowly stilled, being half-guided, half-carried to the couch in the backroom. It was miraculously spreading wider and missing a back so that he could lie face down on it, his broken and battered wings on either side, now tucked as close to him as possible, any further movement causing even more pain. Aziraphale didn't let him go, kept his hand on his chest while lowering him down, stroking across the back of his neck as he laid his face into the comforting warmth and softness of the pillow.

“I'll take care of you.” He managed to finish his mantra. “Let me see. Let me check.”

Crowley's wings, or what was left of them, slowly spread out, making him wince in pain the entire time. He shivered when they touched the floor, finally came to rest, and a warm hand carded across them as careful as it could.

Aziraphale had to fight with himself not to let his worry show with quiet gasps or sighs. Every feather his fingers tracked over seemed worse than the one before. Cut, broken, mangled, scraped. When he reached the largest primaries, his hand stilled. A few of them were still blood feathers. Crowley had only just gone through a molt, ranting about it at every opportunity.

They were not yet bleeding, but Aziraphale knew that once the demon lost control over his miracle, they would. And they would not stop.

“My darling.” He whispered yet again into the quiet of the bookshop. “I'm so sorry, I – we need to pull these out.”

“Please no. No.” The first words Crowley uttered ever since appearing at the doorstop, and they were a pathetic begging for no more extra pain. “Aziraphale, please-”  
“There's no other way, Crowley. They will bleed less if we- if I- and they will heal, my dear. Much better than if we left them as is.”

Crowley sobbed once more, but did not resist anymore. Aziraphale planted a soft kiss against his neck before breaking the contact for the first time to get up and get some utensils.

-*-

He wanted to be careful. He knew he had to be fast.

Aziraphale knelt beside the wings, careful not to jostle them too much. Crowley had already cried out when he set the bone of the broken one with the help of a small miracle, cried again when he covered it in bandages.

There was not much that angelic powers could do for a demon's wings. They'd have to heal on their own. But at least he could help with that.

He wondered if he should warn Crowley, but realised there was no need. When he pushed down on the fleshy bit of wing where one of the broken feathers' shaft protruded out, he was already tensing, waiting for the inevitable.

It came out with a shriek that echoed through the room. Aziraphale pressed cloth against the open wound, catching the last bit of blood before it closed up – much quicker than the feather itself would have, much quicker than the skin actually should, a little more angelic power seeping into it. Whatever he could do, he would.

There were five feathers to be pulled, three on his broken wing, two on the other. Each one of them seemed to pain them both more. Crowley's screams turned into quiet sobs again.

When Aziraphale finished after what felt like hours, but was nothing more than a few minutes, he realised he was trembling almost as much as Crowley below him.

“Just a little more, darling. Hold on a little more.”

The rest seemed almost easy. He cleaned the few feathers that were left intact, cut the broken ones so they'd cause less pain, shifted and sorted as much as he could. Crowley seemed to calm as the angel's hands worked through his wings like they'd often done before, preening him with the same care and adoration he washed his hair with when they shared a bath.

Aziraphale combed through said hair when he finished. Crowley's clothes had already been miracled away for cleaning, a soft blanket covering him now up to his wings.

“All done, my love. You can rest now.”

Crowley's eyes opened, ever since he'd dropped down on the couch. They were completely yellow still, pupils slit as small as possible, but they were softening now too, half-drifting off into sleep. He reached for Aziraphale's hand, and the angel gladly intertwined their fingers.

“Angel.” he mumbled against his hand. “Thank you.” A soft kiss on the palm that had soothed him. “Bless you.” And Aziraphale knew it was not a swear this time. He knew Crowley had enough Goodness left in him, and he knew as soon as they were said that he'd gathered all of it to put it into these words. A warmth swept over them both, and all pain and worry seemed to still for just a second.

It helped Crowley finally fall asleep. Aziraphale couldn't tear his eyes away from his face, so soft in his sleep now, yet with traces of tears, lines of pain still there. He couldn't bear to look at his wings, even in their half-mended state.

Nothing in his mind could be as damning as what Hastur had done this time. Hurting his human body, cursing it, binding it into his snake-form – it was all despicable.

But it was not _this_.

Their wings were not part of their human corporations. They were more, far more, connected to their true forms, first signs of their ethereal – or occult – nature when pulled into this world. A remnant of Crowley's lost angelhood. A last sliver of connection to the powers that had created him.

He couldn't imagine the pain. Physical, nor mental. He'd broken a blood feather once, being not very careful while climbing through his shop to sort some books, and the pain it had caused him had been so strong that Crowley almost came crashing in the door once he took note of it. To think Crowley had lost five now, and several others -

And to think that he'd almost lost his wings completely. Stripped of what was every angel's and demon's pride. Mangled in his true form, scarred in a way no human mind could comprehend. Aziraphale swallowed back tears.

They would heal back. They had to. It would take long, and it would be painful in parts, and tiring, but Crowley's wings would be back to their beautiful shine some day. And if it took some forbidden miracles, and if it caught the attention of Upstairs, Aziraphale wouldn't care.

He carefully freed his fingers from Crowley's grip, glad to see it did not wake him, and stood up. He still had work left to do.

-*-

The ward he pulled up around the bookshop was the strongest he'd ever created. No demon, angel or other unearthly being would be able to enter. None would be able to leave, either, but that was not something he worried about, giving a last glance to the almost lifeless body on the couch. Yet it was not lifeless, thank God, the blanket softly swelling and ebbing with calm, sleeping breath.

Aziraphale took a far deeper breath and stepped out. He hadn't had to seek out demonic presence for ages. Crowley had made himself known far easier to find him, and had equally taken it upon him to watch out for his old side, letting the angel go on without a care in the world.

But he had to find them now. If there was a single demon left on Earth, Aziraphale would find him.

His senses started to crawl across the city, like creeping vines sneaking into every corner. He stilled when he made contact.

“There you are.” He whispered to himself, and felt almost shocked at how much bile was dripping from his voice.

He made it to the seedy bar in seconds. He'd only seen Hastur maybe twice, back before Armageddon't, hiding from sight while Crowley argued with him via some sort of media or other. He recognised him instantly.

The mop of white hair was swaying a little as Hastur downed his drink, a dry, ugly laugh on his lips. He was celebrating.

_He probably thinks he left him for dead. _Bile was rising in Aziraphale's throat again as he sidled up to the demon.

Hastur's eyes widened as he recognised him, his movement stilling for a second in fear, before he burst into laughter.

“Took you that long, eh?” He grabbed another drink. The bartender miraculously didn't notice either of the strange creatures standing in his shop. “Come to avenge the dead, I guess? Try your best, angel.”

“He's not dead.”

Hastur's eyebrows rose.

“How the fuck is the damn fucker still going-” Aziraphale's hand slammed on the counter, quieting him.

“He's not dead. And he will not die from your actions. You will not succeed in whatever you're attempting to do to him. Not as long as I am here.” _I will make sure of that._

“You've not been there quite often, haven't you, sunshine.” Hastur's teeth were decaying, a disgusting sight behind the even more disgusting smile. “Got plenty of _my actions_ in before you finally figured it out.”

Aziraphale stepped even closer, his wings in the ethereal plane spreading out enough that Hastur could feel them here on Earth.

“What're you gonna do, angel? Discorporate me? I'll just come back.” He laughed again, but there was insecurity in his eyes now. “Smite me? Don't think so, heard your lot cut you off as well. Destroy me, then?” He leaned forward, Aziraphale could smell the stink on his breath. “Give it a go. Give me a good fight. I'll make sure to send you back to the traitor just as broken as he is.”

Hastur was shoved back with a jolt, crashing into the floor with his drink spilling next to him, an angel with his wings spread so far over him there was no other light but the faint glow emitting from his halo, slowly materalising into this world. Aziraphale's eyes burned with righteous anger, no pupils left, and Hastur shuddered as he leant down closer to him.

“I will not destroy you, demon.” His voice was so quiet no human would be able to hear, yet it rang in Hastur's ears like a basilica's bells. “That would be _easy_.”

“Wh-what do you-”

“You are not deserving of a quick death. You deserve as much, no, far more pain than you have caused.”

“You're gonna torture me, _Angel_?” The last word a spitting insult. “That's what your kind do when they lose connection to Upstairs?”

Aziraphale did not react to the taunting. His eyes, entirely blue like a cloudless sky, scanned across Hastur's face, and he could feel him diving deeper than just a look, pulling something from his mind that the demon would never share with the enemy, barely even with his fellow Fallen.

Aziraphale's lips curled into a smile, and there was nothing angelic to it.

“Ligur.” He said, absolutely no inflection to his voice.

Hastur almost screamed. It quickly caught itself into a hard swallow. “You- you wouldn't dare-”

“I would. I will.” Aziraphale stood up again, towering over him. “You've hurt my love. Scarred my love. It is only fair for you to experience the same.”

“You'll never get your hands on him, you dirty, blessed-” Hastur rose as well, shaking with fear, trying to run towards the danger in anger at the same time. He crashed into a wall seconds later, the angel yet again bearing over him.

“I will find him, the same way you keep finding Crowley. I will hurt him, the same way you keep hurting him. An eye for an eye. I think your side invented that saying.”

Hastur's mind was racing. He was holding back tears. He'd lost Ligur once before, he couldn't risk – couldn't dare – no matter what it took -

“Mercy.” He whispered, and Aziraphale's eyes twitched. “That- that's what your kind do, isn't it? Show Mercy. What if I begged you for it? What if I-”

“You couldn't beg me for the world, demon. You deserve no mercy.” Yet Aziraphale's glow was calming down, his terrifyingly angelic presence dimming. “The only thing I can offer you is a truce, for a promise from you.”

“A promise?”  
“You will keep away from Crowley. You will not harm him again. And-” Aziraphale's power rose again. “You will keep others from him as well. If you want your peace, you will give us ours. No demon will come for us anymore. Promise this.”

Hastur swallowed again. “And then you'll not harm Ligur?”

Aziraphale was quiet.

“I will not seek him out.” Another dark smile curved around his mouth. “But I will not offer complete peace, nor mercy. You've not shown us either of it, so you deserve to share the fear we've had for a while.”

Hastur's breath was ragged. He couldn't negotiate for more, he knew deep down as the angel's eyes kept boring into him.

“I promise.”

Aziraphale's outreached hand seemed mocking, but Hastur had no choice but to take it. The angel pulled him up off the floor, and before he could let go, pulled him closer, wrapped his other arm around him-

Hastur felt a searing pain on his back, where Aziraphale's hand had planted itself firmly between his invisible wings. Something in him broke apart.

“An eye for an eye.” Aziraphale whispered into his ear before letting go, letting the demon stumble backwards.

Before he could right himself again, the angel was gone. Hastur could not feel his wings anymore, neither on Earth nor the ethereal plane he tried to pull them from.

-*-

Aziraphale settled down next to Crowley as carefully as he could, but he was still met with golden eyes slowly opening.

“Angel.” He whispered as he snuggled against his thigh, moving as little as possible under the pain rising back up after his sleep. Warm fingers swept through his hair again. “Where'd you go?”

“Don't worry.” Aziraphale's voice was finally its soft, kind former self again. “I took care of it.”


End file.
